


Soul Music

by kriadydragon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Depression, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Music, Stress Relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 18:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1314367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriadydragon/pseuds/kriadydragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur Pendragon is assigned the famous pianist Merlin Emrys as a client, he thought for sure he'd be getting a spoiled diva, not a depressed, anxious mess. Modern AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soul Music

**Author's Note:**

> Merlin will probably come across as a bit OOC at the start but it _is_ for a reason.

“You’re to be Merlin Emrys’ agent.”

Arthur looked up from where he’d been picking at his fingernails in bored interest, and stared at his father with what he would later be sure had been the most cartoonish expression of horror imaginable – the kind with the eyes literally popping from their sockets and veins pounding impossibly from the forehead. Had Arthur not been in complete shock, he would have wiggled his finger in his ear to clear it and ensure that he had heard correctly. 

Because there was no possible way that his father had just assigned him to Merlin Emrys.

“Excuse me? Emrys?” Arthur said with a massive amount of incredulity. “You want me to take on _Emrys_?”

Merlin Emrys, the piano-playing pretty-boy waif who everyone said was as delicate as a flower and, no doubt, demanding as a Persian cat in a palace. Merlin Emrys, who may have been eclectic in his music but was still a bloody _pianist_.

Arthur _hated_ piano music. He’d take the bloody flute over a piano. He’d take bloody _bongo drums_ over a piano. Anything but the bloody piano.

And anyone but that overly artistic pansy, Merlin Emrys. 

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, mustering every iota of professionalism he had, because like hell he was going to whine about this and prove… whatever it was his father was trying to prove. Uther had to be proving something to give him Emrys.

“Father, we talked about this. I was to be Gwaine’s agent. I’ve already spoken to him, in fact, and he seemed quite keen about the prospect…”

And while Gwaine was, generally, a pain in the arse, he was a singer and a guitarist and a bloody good one. Oh, and he didn’t play the bloody piano or look like a strong breeze would knock him over. 

“Gwaine already has an agent,” Uther said with forced patience. “And I don’t care if he’s not Morgana’s biggest fan, she knows how to keep him in check. You, however, need far more exposure to actual talent and what it looks like. I am sick and tired of you taking on these so-called ‘artists’ you find only for them to waste our time, money and their skills half-assing it simply so that they can throw ridiculous parties and sully the Pendragon name. You’re taking on Emrys, and that’s final.”

It took everything Arthur had and then some not to sag in his seat like a petulant child. 

Emrys. Merlin bloody Emrys. The golden boy of Pendragon Records. Except that Pendragon Records had a plethora of golden boys and golden girls and none of them piano playing waifs who probably thought he was above everyone else just because he could play Mozart without batting an eye… or something. To be honest, Arthur had never met the man, but he’d suffered through some of his concert’s at Uther’s request (i.e. demand), and the boy seemed the type to think himself above everyone else – the stiff way he moved, the equally stiff way he bowed, the flat expressions. Lords, Emrys probably thought he was doing everyone a favor by simply _breathing_.

Well, fine, then. If that was how things were going to be, then Arthur would be the one to more than gladly give Merlin the wake-up call.

~oOo~

“Merlin Emrys? Meet Arthur Pendragon, you’re new agent,” Uther said with a bright smile and a wave of his hand toward Arthur.

Arthur stood up from their table and shook hands with Merlin who was just now joining them. Merlin’s hand was cool, his fingers long but his grip rather weak (in Arthur’s opinion). But his usual flat expression was sullied by what looked to be a touch of confusion (and, for a moment, what Arthur thought might have been uncertainty).

“Hello,” Merlin said politely with an equally polite smile. Then they sat, and dined, celebrating the new arrangement with an expensive bottle of wine and lobster. It was Uther (as usual when he was present) who did most of the talking, going over the finer details of the new contract and what was expected of everyone. Merlin nodded politely, his expression looking less flat but only because it was a touch bewildered. He seemed to pick at his food more than eat it (probably thinking it below him, Arthur thought), and spoke only when a response was needed. 

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, it seems I must make a quick pop to the loo,” Uther said.

Translation, he would now leave them for a few minutes in order for client and agent to get better acquainted. 

Uther left the table. Merlin stared at Arthur, no doubt waiting for him to initiate conversation. He was no longer poking at his food but sitting with his hands clasped tightly against the edge of the table, almost as though he were huddling against the cold (except it wasn’t all that cold in the place, and Merlin was wearing a rather thick, dark, long-sleeved shirt beneath a dark vest. And, yet, Arthur could have sworn he saw a slight shiver wrack Merlin’s bony shoulders. That’s what Emrys got for being such a waif). 

“So,” Arthur said, taking his glass of wine and swirling it. He took a sip, and rather like what he tasted.

“Good stuff,” he said.

Merlin nodded, glancing down at his plate. “Yeah. Yeah, good stuff.” Except he had yet to touch his wine.

Arthur chuckled. “Oh, relax, Emrys, I don’t bite if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried. Just a bit tired. Sorry,” he said, still staring fixedly (and dazedly) at his plate. 

Arthur exhaled through his nose. “So, seeing as how we’re to be working together, it seems we should get to know each other.”

“Um… yes, okay. Yeah,” Merlin said, sitting straighter and looking more alert. 

Silence settled less-than-comfortably between them. 

“Any food allergies I need to be aware of?” Arthur finally thought to ask. 

“Not that I know of,” Merlin said.

“Good, good,” Arthur said with a nod.

Another beat of silence. 

“What are your dislikes?” Arthur asked.

“Um… I don’t really like crowds. And I’m not fond of being touched. And I don’t like to be around sick people – nothing personal in that, I’m not a germ-a-phobe or any such thing but I do tend to get sick easily…”

_Surprise, surprise,_ Arthur thought. He said out loud, “Anything else?” And in so doing opened up a can of worms. Dogs jumping on him, sudden loud noises, big cities, being rushed when there was still plenty of time, caffeinated soda, chocolate with nuts in them, tight clothing and on and on. But Emrys listed each dislike with a nervous air, as though this were a job interview and whether or not he was employed depended on how he answered. It also didn’t tell much about him that Arthur hadn’t already figured out – the man had entitlement issues, and doubtless expected every whim to be catered to, especially where his dislikes were concerned. 

Then Uther returned, and the conversation switched easily but immediately back to business. Once business was done and the meal finished (or, in Merlin’s case, thoroughly demolished but hardly eaten) they went their separate ways – well, Merlin did, hurrying off with the air of places to go and people to see and all that, joined by his bodyguard who Uther said was Percival, and Merlin’s PA- a lovely curly haired woman named Gwen. 

As Arthur and Uther headed home in the limo, a niggling thought that had been plaguing Arthur since before the meeting finally took solid shape, and he asked, “Merlin’s last agent. That was Valiant, wasn’t it? Wasn’t he Merlin’s agent for quite some time?”

Arthur had met Valiant only a few times but had heard plenty about him from the office gossip. Apparently, he was a rather scary man with the personality of a wasp. 

“Yes,” Uther said, distracted by his phone.

“So what gave? Why did Merlin give him up, or did Valiant give up Merlin?”

Uther looked up from his phone, just for a heartbeat, then returned his gaze to the screen. “It didn’t work out. There were… complications, and Merlin was in need of a new agent.”

“What complications?” Arthur asked, frowning.

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with. It was Valiant’s problem, not Merlin’s.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes, but didn’t press the matter.

~oOo~

If there was one advantage to having a client like Merlin Emrys, it was that the job came with perks – one of them being a private office with a spectacular view of London. And one of the perks to a private office was doing research that was entirely work related but certainly didn’t _look_ work related. Had one walked in on Arthur without knowing who he was and who he worked for, they would have jumped to the immediate conclusion that he was Merlin Emrys’ biggest fan.

But fore warned was fore armed, as the saying went. And if Arthur couldn’t find out what had happened between Merlin and his former agent from Uther, then perhaps the rumor mill would have a light or two to shed. 

So far – as rumor mills were wont to be when they were most needed – the clouds hiding the matter were only increased, and Arthur now knew more than he had ever wanted to know when it came to Merlin’s fans - such as how fan group A were absolutely positive that Merlin and Lance (a concerto violinist who often played alongside Merlin) were dating. While fan group B vehemently disagreed because Merlin was currently shagging the cellist Mithian, who Merlin also sometimes played alongside. Then there was fan group C, who believed Merlin was in a threesome relationship and secretly married to both Lance _and_ Mithian. There was the usual fanfiction, the usual fanart, and Arthur wishing it were possible to scrub his brain out with soap. 

But nothing about Merlin and his former agent. Not that anyone in the fanning world cared about a celebrity’s agent (unless there was a romance involved, then they cared quite a bit).

Everything else Arthur read he already knew, such as Merlin not so much being discovered as having won a televised talent show at the age of seventeen, playing with a skill that seemed impossible for one so young. He also wrote his own music, was in high demand all over the world, and even in high demand among other music groups and bands. Which certainly explained Merlin’s schedule (lords, did the boy even know the meaning of the word vacation?) His mother’s name was Hunith, his father… not in the picture, and Merlin liked to donate quite a bit to various charities, hospitals, and conservation funds. Apparently money was no object to him, and he probably thought all that donating made him look even better. 

He was also very private, because interviews with him didn’t reveal a bloody thing about his life beyond where he grew up and how he was discovered. Most celebrities tried to be as private as they could, but with Merlin… it was almost as though Merlin’s life were a script, with only the needed bits filled in to prove that he existed, but nothing to show that he had lived an actual life before being discovered. No funny anecdotes about learning to drive, or when he first fell in love, or even what his bloody favorite food was. Nothing, except that he loved the piano, loved to play, and didn’t really know where he got his musical inspiration from because it just came to him.

And when he smiled - whether during an interview or for the camera – it was wooden and forced. 

Except in earlier pictures, Arthur noticed – from when Merlin had just signed a deal and was making it big. Those smile were real. Everything else was just part of the script.

~oOo~

Arthur didn’t know how Merlin did it. It seemed like the moment one show or concert ended then it was not ten minutes later they were on a jet heading to another show, or concert, or interview, or convention. Only to return back to the studio to record his next album, or take part in the score for some movie, or take part in another musician’s album. Just thinking about Merlin’s schedule made Arthur’s head spin.

“Ten minutes until curtain. Ten minutes,” a stagehand announced. Gwen was fussing with Merlin’s bowtie while Merlin was looking over some sheet music – not his piece. He’d been having trouble coming up with new pieces as of late. When finished, Merlin handed the music to Percival to hold so that he could fix his cuffs.

“Sure you don’t want to give the music one more read?” Arthur said from where he leaned by the dressing room door. “I don’t think you have it perfectly memorized just yet. Oh, wait, you don’t need to memorize it because it’s going to be right there in front of you.”

Merlin rolled his eyes then glared at Arthur. “It helps, alright? And I’ve never played this piece before.”

Arthur shrugged. “You seemed to play it alright in rehearsal.”

“I was rubbish in rehearsal.”

Now it was Arthur’s turn to roll his eyes. “You musicians. Must you dramatize everything? Even you said the music wasn’t all that complicated and that you could do better.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t mess it up,” Merlin snapped.

“Boys, play nice,” Gwen cut in calmly. “Merlin, breathe. Here, I had your favorite tea brought up. Take a sip, it’ll calm you.” She stopped dealing with the tie to take the cup from the dressing room table and hand it to Merlin. He snatched it from her hand and gulped it down like a vodka shot. He then grabbed the music back from Percival and hurried from the dressing room and to the stage.

Arthur pushed away to follow more casually, Gwen beside him and Percival taking up the rear.

“He’s been doing this for how many years? Because it seems to me his anxiety is only getting worse,” Arthur said.

Gwen grimaced. “Well, he is playing new music, which often flusters him.”

“But that can’t be all there is to it, can it?” Arthur said, looking at her. “Maybe he hadn’t been quite as panicky in Hong Kong but he had still sweated profusely and was gulping all that water.”

Gwen shrugged helplessly. “He’s a perfectionist. There’s also been demands for new pieces from him; I don’t think that’s been helping, any.”

Arthur grunted in agreement. Merlin wasn’t obligated to write new music but he was strongly encouraged, sometimes to the point where those making the demands (namely Uther and Pendragon Records) made it sound as though his career depended on it. 

Arthur had already asked both Gwen and Percival about Valiant, but neither one knew what had happened to result in Valiant getting the sack.

“It could be that Merlin was merely uncomfortable with him,” Gwen had said. “They would always have these little talks in private, and Merlin would often come back from them looking pale and shaken. Valiant was never the easiest person to get along with and Merlin… well… he’s not the most assertive person.”

Which had been her polite way of calling him “delicate.”

They watched, back stage, as Merlin played the various pieces with a perfection that even Arthur had to admit was brilliant. This was Merlin’s third concert since Arthur had become Merlin’s agent, but it was only now that Arthur noticed that when Merlin played, he did so feverishly, as if so much depended on it. He played like he had to, not because he wanted to.

~oOo~

“Damn it, Merlin, we need to go! The Early show is going to be on in an hour!” Arthur called, storming into the hotel room next to his. Merlin was supposed to have met him for breakfast thirty minutes ago, and although Merlin was late more often than not, thirty minutes was pushing it.

“Merlin!” Arthur called, and wished that Gwen were here. She was better at getting Merlin ready for the morning shows that had him getting up at psychotic-o’clock in the morning, when Merlin’s feet seemed to be made of lead and his mood of sour lemons.

Merlin’s suitcase was open, his suit hanging on the closet door, but there was no Merlin in sight. Arthur looked to the bathroom door that was closed. Lovely. The idiot was probably still plucking out unwanted eyebrow hairs or something. Arthur went straight to the door and pounded on it.

“Merlin!” he shouted. Still no answer, but the shower was going, Arthur could hear it. 

Arthur tried the knob, which wasn’t locked, thank goodness. He shoved his way inside, yanked back the curtain and glowered down at the ball of skinny, naked pianist curled up beneath the still-warm spray and snoring slightly. 

And, lords, he really was skinny, as in no fat on him what so ever, and barely any muscle. This was the first time Arthur had seen Merlin without a shirt – Merlin never liked dressing or undressing in front of others, and Arthur had a feeling this was why. The nodules of his backbone were pressing sharply against his skin, and his ribs looked like they could literally cut someone. Curled up as he was, he looked impossibly small for someone so tall, so… well… delicate.

Not even delicate – it was too weak a word. Frail. Yes, definitely frail, as if it wouldn’t take much for him to shatter. 

Arthur shook off the thoughts. Frail or not, Merlin had a show to attend. Arthur turned off the water, and with the threat of getting soaked out of the way, gripped Merlin’s arm with the intent to shake him – gently – awake.

His fingers barely wrapped around the bony arm when Arthur suddenly found himself reeling back from a flurry of scrawny limbs. Merlin was scrabbling, madly, a look of sheer panic twisting his pale face as he struggle swiftly to get up. But between the wet tub and his wet skin, it wasn’t possible. He went down twice, once on his back then again sideways, his ribs slamming against the soap holder. Arthur broke from his shock and lunged forward, gathering Merlin to him and trying to pin his arms to his side.

“Merlin! Merlin, stop! You’re hurting yourself, Merlin!”

Merlin squirmed until he slipped free of Arthur’s arms. But he stopped, sitting huddled and shaking against the back of the tub, eyes rolling wildly in his skull before finally settling on Arthur. He stared at Arthur, just stared, his breathing fast and shallow. Arthur stared back, his hands raised and his breathing heavy. 

“Arthur?” Merlin said, his voice so small and uncertain it made Arthur feel oddly ill.

“Yeah,” Arthur panted. “Yeah, it’s just me, Merlin.” He heaved a relieved breath and scraped his fingers through his hair. “Lords, Merlin, you could have warned me you’re a light sleeper. What the hell was that, a bad dream?”

Merlin’s eyes wandered the bathroom, taking it in as though seeing it for the first time. 

“Um…” he said, uncertain.

Arthur shook his head. “Never mind. You’re going to freeze in there.” He grabbed the towel from the rack and tossed it to Merlin. “Come on.” Then held out his hand to Merlin. 

Merlin took it and let Arthur pull him to his feet. Merlin was unsteady at first, and Arthur let him lean against his shoulder while he wrapped the towel around his pathetically thin waist.

They said nothing as they entered the room, Merlin limping slightly as he went to the bed and his suitcase for underthings, and Arthur preparing a cold compress using a washcloth and hotel ice. 

“So… was it a bad dream?” Arthur asked curiously. Merlin had his boxer’s and an undershirt on when Arthur handed him the compress. Merlin alternated between icing his thigh and his ribs.

“Yeah,” Merlin said hesitantly. “Bad dream.” He proceeded to dress into his clothes for the show. 

“Must have been a nasty one, the way you woke up,” Arthur said, watching Merlin carefully. Merlin’s movements were slow, stiff, but they would be after how badly he bruised himself up.

“Probably, I don’t remember it. I never do.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Merlin? Are you all right?”

“Yeah, fine. It wasn’t that bad of a spill…”

“That’s not what I meant,” Arthur cut in.

Merlin, slipping into the dress pants, glanced at Arthur, his brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Arthur shrugged. “Just…” he sighed. “Do you like having me as an agent?”

“Yeah,” Merlin said, the furrows in his brow deepening. “I mean, you can be a bit of a prat but I suspect that’s just agents for you.” He smiled. It was a small smile, but it was real, nothing wooden or scripted about it. And it made Arthur feel warm, as though he had just accomplished something important. 

Arthur smiled back. “Well, I suppose I’m not that much of a prat if you’re keeping me around. Unlike your last agent.”

Merlin’s smile vanished. He went back to dressing, and seemed to focus on it intently. “Definitely prat-lite compared to him, yeah.”

“What happened between you two, if you don’t mind my asking?” Arthur said, hoping that he wasn’t pushing the matter. He had never intended to ask Merlin out right what happened with Valiant – certain that Merlin wouldn’t answer. But conversations were slippery things, and once the question had reached Arthur’s lips, it refused to be held back.

Merlin shrugged. “He wasn’t a good man,” he said. “I don’t really like talking about it.”

Arthur nodded. “Okay, then.”

It wasn’t until they were heading to the studio that it registered.

Man. Merlin hadn’t said ‘not a good agent.’ He had said, not a good man. 

But Arthur couldn’t fathom why the wording mattered, so he put it out of his mind.

~oOo~

There were truths, and then there were truths. There were the truths you thought mattered, and then the truths that did matter.

A week after the shower incident, Merlin got sick, and his body kept rebelling against getting better. It was coughs and sniffles for the most part, but on occasion they would to escalate into the flu, sometimes with nasty coughs and sometimes with vomit. But what was rather pathetic, in Arthur’s opinion, was that this was actually _normal._

“Especially during the winter months,” Percival had explained, what with Gwen tending to a Merlin currently turning his guts inside out in the bathroom – as announced to all the world by his very loud heaving. Thankfully the current concert was over and done with, and the concert hall being minutes away from the hotel meant getting Merlin to a toilet in record time. 

“Well, winter in the northern hemisphere, to get technical about it,” Percival said. He was strangely accurate about things like that. “That’s why we call them the slow months since fewer concerts are booked.”

“Why doesn’t he just take the time off?” Arthur said. “Seriously, why doesn’t he take any time off?”

Percival was sitting on the edge of the bed, Arthur in the chair in front of the desk. Percival glanced to the bathroom door, then leaned forward and beckoned Arthur closer with a waggle of his finger. Arthur rolled the chair toward the bed, and the two men leaned in like co-conspirators. 

“Don’t tell him I said this, but I think he’s afraid to go on holiday,” Percival said.

Arthur frowned at that. “Who the bloody hell fears taking a holiday? That’s like fearing bloody Christmas morning when you’re ten years old and Santa has yet to let you down.”

Percival shrugged. “I don’t know. All I know is that every time Gwen tries to bring it up, Merlin always gets this panicked look on his face. He always says it’s because he doesn’t need one, but between you and me, I think the bloody company’s made him paranoid about holidays. No offense.”

Arthur reared his head back. “How would Pendragon Records have made him paranoid about holidays?”

“Well – again, no offense – but they can be a bit demanding. It’s been a year since he’s written anything new, did you know that? A whole year. He used to whip out songs like he was a song machine or something, now he’s lucky if he gets even half a song. Plus, there was this one time when he took two days off to go visit his mum. She was sick in the hospital, you see. She had pneumonia at the time. He’d been so worried about her that he hadn’t been practicing, and when he got back he was a bit rusty about it.”

Percival sucked in a breath, his eyes wide. “Oh, people were not happy about that, let me tell you. He was supposed to be recording his next album, and they needed it out right away. Personally I thought he sounded just fine, but the recording lads and that wanker, Valiant, didn’t think so, and your dad agreed. They kept giving him all these lectures about practicing, and I’m standing there like, ‘give the kid a break, his mum was in the hospital.’” Percival shook his head. “The look on Merlin’s face, let me tell you. He was certain he was going to get sacked and kept worrying about how he was going to help pay his mum’s hospital bills. Gwen and I had to remind him that he was under contract and couldn’t be fired for something silly as a few days of no practice. He had a right to take a few days for himself.”

“But… that’s the thing about Merlin. He’s twenty-two, been in this business since he was seventeen and still doesn’t have a full grasp of how it works. He’s just… so bloody paranoid about things. Anyway, I think all that lecturing and bull about not practicing scared him off of vacations for good. He never took one since.”

Arthur sat back. “So Vailant was an ass and that’s why Merlin sacked him.”

Percival lifted his large hands. “Don’t know, but neither do I doubt it. Valiant wasn’t the nicest bloke. I always thought he was a bit touched in the head to get so angry over a few days of missed practice. I mean, he was _livid_ ; red in the face and everything. There was a moment when I honestly thought he might try to hit Merlin.”

Arthur rubbed thoughtfully at his chin with his knuckle. 

The door chose that moment to open, and Merlin came stumbling out, his body hunched and his face white as the snow outside, with Gwen leading him by the arm to his bed. Percival was quick to jump up and pull the covers back, and Arthur placed the waste basket, tissues and a bottle of water within easy reach.

“Thank you,” Merlin groaned. He curled up, dressed in a T-shirt and sweat pants, under layers of blankets, and shivered as he tried to sleep. Arthur watched him for a moment, then went to make some calls.

~oOo~

Arthur hadn’t meant for his little surprise to be more than that – a little surprise – but then life liked to laugh at the plans of mortal men. 

Merlin’s “slow months” lasted longer than was normal, although neither was that abnormal according to Percival and Gwen. Some slow months lasted longer than others. But with concerts and interviews and a movie soundtrack to record – plus a bit of a scandal involving a sex tape, a bloke who looked just like Merlin having it on with another bloke then later a girl, and people willing to believe anything – the slow months were taking a toll as no slow months ever had. 

The sex-tape incident was the worst. Because while people knew it wasn’t Merlin, that didn’t stop the jokes or teasing or rumors and photo-manips from running rampant. Merlin had always avoided the Internet like the plague except where shopping and games were concerned, but he couldn’t escape the interviews – whether over the phone or in person - and some inconsiderate interviewer bringing it up, and mostly just to see poor Merlin blush. One interviewer even tried to get Merlin to talk about his sex life, which didn’t exist (Arthur eventually found out when Merlin had ranted about the interviewer, later). In part because of his busy schedule, and in part because he was old fashioned like that. Sex was what happened between two people that loved each other, not two strangers looking to make a _tape_. 

Arthur had no doubts that Merlin would have said as much, but he was wisely too private for that, and would have only been mocked for it. 

But even when the scandal was quickly denounced, and Merlin looked to finally be getting passed the slow months, life still found ways to heap unnecessary burdens on him. His recent album – the one he always had to hurry home to record – wasn’t selling as well as past albums. People were getting tired of him rehashing songs that already existed. They wanted new music from him. Better music. And Pendragon Records was becoming impatient. 

“He needs to write songs, Arthur,” Uther said over the phone, since this season’s concert was in Munich. “As good as he is, his own songs are new, better. He needs to create new music.”

“Well, he’s trying but that’s all he seems able to do right now,” Arthur said, pacing. This was the third time Uther had called, as though if Merlin didn’t write a new song _right this minute_ then all of Pendragon Records would go under. Which was rubbish, of course, but Uther had never been a patient man whenever records sales were down. 

“Well, get him to try harder,” Uther said. “We need a new album from him and that album needs new music. If sales continue to plummet then we’ll have no reason to keep him on. Tell him that. Maybe it’ll jog that bloody brain of his into actually creating something.”

Uther hung up. It took all of Arthur’s will-power not to crush his mobile thinking it was his father’s neck.

He then went to Merlin’s room to see if he was still awake. He was, sadly, even after such a long concert. He was sitting on his bed cross-legged, staring down at music sheets waiting to receive actual music, and for a moment Arthur wondered if Merlin had overheard Arthur’s conversation with Uther. 

“You know those sheets will still be there in the morning,” Arthur said. “Well, they’ll be on the desk, not your bed. Point is, you don’t need to try and come up with anything tonight.”

“I know,” Merlin said. He gathered up the sheets and tapped them into a neat pile on his knee. “I thought I had something, but it’s gone, now.”

Arthur moved to take the sheets from Merlin so Merlin didn’t have to get out of bed (he was no longer coughing, or puking, but he was still too pale, and proving that it was possible for him to get even thinner). Arthur noticed the faded pencil marks of music notes that had been erased, written, and erased again. 

He thought of what his father had said, and the threat that had been made. 

“Is there anything that helps inspire you? Music, maybe? Walks through the park? Communing with nature?”

Merlin gave him an odd look with an amused smile. “Communing with nature?”

Arthur snorted, tossing up his hands, the sheets of music rustling. “I don’t know! I’m not the artsy one. Really, what helps? Anything?”

Merlin shrugged, and said with heart-breaking dejection. “I don’t know anymore.”

“Well, what used to help?”

“Nothing in particular,” Merlin said. “The music just came to me. I’d be walking down the aisle of a store and get inspired for no reason. It just came, like it wanted to come. Like I was full of all this music just waiting for its turn to come out.”

“But not anymore?” Arthur asked.

Merlin could only shake his head. For a heartbeat moment, Arthur was sure the boy was going to cry. Then Merlin took a deep breath, and looked up at Arthur.

“You need me to make more music. Is that why you keep asking?”

Arthur looked down at his hands holding blank sheets marked with erased notes. 

“Curiosity, actually,” he said, because it was true. Then he swallowed nervously. “But, yes, there has been… conversations… on you creating new songs.” He held up his hands when Merlin tensed. “But I’m not going to push you. Uther can talk all he wants about sales and needing a new album, but unless he wants that album to be complete rubbish then he’s going to have to be patient. I may not be an artist but I understand what pressure does to musicians. You have time, Merlin. And you should be able to take all the time you need.”

But rather than bolster the young man, Arthur’s words only seemed to send him into a deeper melancholy.

“It’s not that simple,” Merlin said quietly.

“Uh, yes, it is, actually,” Arthur said. “Did you not hear the part in which I said that unless Uther wants complete rubbish then he’s going to have to be patient because pressuring an artist does no good?”

Merlin, however, continued to sit there, staring miserably at the bed’s duvet. Arthur sighed feeling suddenly and inexplicably weary.

“Get some rest,” Arthur said kindly. Then smiled slightly. “I was going to wait until everything was ready and surprise you with this, but when the tour’s over I’ve made plans for you to spend time at an amusement park of your choice for a few days. I know you like them and…”

Merlin’s head shot up, his eyes wide, not with joy or surprise, but alarm.

“Arthur, no I can’t.”

“Uh, yes, you can. You need a holiday, Merlin. It’s most likely the reason why the music hasn’t been coming to you.”

Merlin shook his head. “No, I can’t. I just… I can’t. Not until the new album is finished.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Merlin, the new album is never going to be bloody finished because Uther wants new songs and you don’t have any. And I’m quite sure the reason you don’t have any is because you’re overworked and need a bloody break. Just for a few days, Merlin. I swear it won’t do you any harm.”

But Merlin continued shaking his head, saying nothing because there were no real reasons to give. There was only fear, Arthur knew. Fear of being reprimanded because he hadn’t practiced. Fear of being chastised for being unable to write new music. Fear of being sacked, despite the contract that was supposed to keep that from happening.

Merlin really didn’t know how this business worked. He was what mattered, not the music or the albums or the tours. And yet he didn’t – possibly couldn’t? – realize that. To him, the company saw him as a tool to be used and discarded at will, not a treasure to be hoarded. 

Lords, no wonder Merlin wasn’t a pompous, pampered ass. 

But why? That’s what Arthur wanted to know. What had happened to make Merlin so… _bloody desperate_ instead of the pampered ass he should have been? 

What the hell was wrong with this kid?

But before Arthur could ask (not that he expected an answer if he did), Merlin said, “I’m… really tired. Sorry.” And crawled into bed.

~oOo~

“I almost wish he was a pompous ass. It would probably make my job a lot easier,” Arthur said, slowly swirling his coffee with a swizzle stick.

Morgana was thoroughly enjoying her mocha cinnamon whatever and icing-drenched pastry, which she would complain about tomorrow when she gained half a pound (that she would then run off only to regain it with another mocha-whatever and pastry).

“No, because then you’d still meet me for coffee just to complain about it,” Morgana said, licking a wad of icing from her thumb. “Only it would involve more expletives and make all the mothers in the café glare at you. Besides, take it from someone who _is_ the agent of several pompous asses.” She leaned forward, looking serious. “You don’t want a pompous ass.”

“Says the woman who’s never had to deal with a depressed pianist,” Arthur grumbled. He sat back with a huff of air. “Almost makes me miss those idiots who partied their way right out of their contracts. I just…” he sighed, deflating. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Convince Uther to give up on Merlin’s song writing and just hire a bloody song writer. It’s not like Merlin’s lost the ability to play or anything.”

“But his songs are what put him on the music map. Have you even read any of the forums dedicated to him? People are starting to complain. And not the usual polite complaints where they try to be understanding. People are accusing him of being a bloody diva holding back for more money.”

Morgana rolled her eyes. “Arthur, there will always be some irate fan accusing the object of their fanning of being a diva. That he still has fans and that they’re complaining is a good sign. And they’ll get over it, they always do.”

Morgana finished off the last of her pastry and dusted her hands of the crumbs. “Besides,” she said around a full mouth, “This isn’t about the music, is it?”

“What?” Arthur snapped.

“Oh, be honest, Arthur. You’ve never shown this much concern for a client.”

“They never lasted long enough to be a concern,” Arthur said.

“And you’ve only been Merlin’s agent for seven months. You’re worried about him. You said it yourself more than once what a nervous wreck he is and that he’s a flu magnet. If this was about the music then you’d be complaining about the music, not Merlin’s stress issues.”

Arthur tossed up his hands. “I don’t know what to do. He refuses to take any time off but the more he doesn’t take time off the more tense he gets, not to mention jumpy. This job is bloody wrecking him and I have no blasted clue how to get him to slow down and take some time for himself.”

Their conversation was briefly interrupted by the boisterous entrance of a swaggering prima donna doing a piss-poo job of hiding his identity behind yellow-tinted shades. Gwaine was the cliché rock and roller in expensive black leather and jangling chains and jewelry. Teenage girls giggled behind their coffee cups, and when Gwaine winked at a couple of them, Arthur thought for sure they would pass out from all the blushing. Gwaine sauntered over to Arthur’s and Morgana’s table, and gave Morgana a chaste peck on the cheek.

“Morgana, love. Always a pleasure to see your goddess of a face.”

“Gwaine, always a laugh to hear your attempts at ass-kissing,” Morgana said as Gwaine pulled a chair from an unoccupied table and sprawled in it. 

Morgana gave Arthur a slight squint of apology. “Sorry, thought I’d kill two birds with one stone and have Gwaine meet me here. But I’ll talk to him in a minute. Back to Merlin.”

“Merlin?” Gwaine said. His brow scrunched in thought. “That skinny piano player I did a duo thing with last year? Good lad, him.”

“Depressed lad, apparently,” Morgana said. “Arthur says he refuses to take a vacation.”

Gwaine snorted. “He did strike me as the workaholic type.” He leaned forward. “Look, here’s what you do. Get him stupidly drunk and bundle him onto the next flight to Cancun…”

“I’m not kidnapping Merlin,” Arthur said flatly. “He’d probably have an aneurysm the moment he woke up. He needs to relax. I’m certain that if he can just relax, the floodgates of inspiration will open, new songs will be written and Uther will finally get off our backs and give us a little breathing room. But that isn’t going to happen unless Merlin can actually _relax_ , and that can’t happen if he doesn’t agree to take a break.”

Gwaine clucked his tongue. “Definitely the dilemma, there.” He then tapped Morgana on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “I’ve got that place in the Virgin Islands. Nice, quiet little spot with a private beach and everything.” He looked at Arthur. “Listen, if you can get that high-strung boy of yours to take a holiday, you give me a ring and that place is yours for however long you need it. Don’t let this gig suck that kid down a black hole.”

“Ditto,” Morgana said, arching her thumb at Gwaine.

“Thank you,” Arthur said sincerely. “But that still leaves the problem of how to convince Merlin to take a holiday.”

Morgana and Gwaine replied with matching pained expressions.

~oOo~

Arthur thought gentle persuasion and wearing Merlin down might do the trick. He enlisted Gwen and Percival’s help, of course, but neither one were hopeful. They had tried - so many times they lost count - to talk Merlin into taking a break, but it had only added to the young man’s stress.

Arthur tried every tactic he could think of, including attempts to meet Merlin halfway.

“I talked to Gwaine about this place of his. It has a piano. You can still practice while relaxing.”

And for a moment that felt like forever, Merlin had looked at Arthur with such surprise and hope that Arthur was certain Merlin was going to say yes. 

Merlin said nothing instead. He turned back to the studio’s piano and continued playing. 

But life did grant wishes, albeit in the most ironic and unwanted ways possible (because you really did have to be careful what you wished for). Arthur got what he wanted, but not in the way he wanted it. 

Merlin hadn’t come in for his next rehearsal, nor was he answering his phone. Arthur called Percival, who replied that he was standing outside of Merlin’s flat – being Merlin’s driver as well as body guard – and ringing Merlin’s doorbell with no success.

“Please tell me you have a key,” Arthur said in between wrestling his jacket on while staying on the phone and hurrying from the building. 

“No,” Percival said miserably.

Merlin’s flat was five minutes away from the studio by cab, depending on the traffic. Today, with it being well before lunch, traffic had decided to be kind. Arthur arrived in what felt both like no time and forever at the ritzy flat with its plush lobby and eager-to-help doorman, who Arthur had contact the landlord for a spare key. He took the stairs, the elevator too slow, and arrived at the third floor to see Percival three doors down, alternating between pounding on the door and ringing the doorbell. 

“Have you heard anything?” Arthur asked. “Movement, sobbing, yelling? Anything?”

Percival shook his head helplessly.

The building’s owner arrived minutes later with the needed key, looking harried and worried as he unlocked the door. The moment the lock clicked, Arthur and Percival burst in. 

They froze, only for one second, within the threshold.

Merlin was curled up on the floor next to his piano bench, music sheets scattered around him, his body still in the clothes he had worn the other night. He wasn’t moving.

The moment of shock ended as abruptly as it began. 

“Someone call an ambulance!” Arthur said to whoever was listening. He ran over to Merlin and fell to his knees by the boy’s still form. He pressed his fingers to the cool skin of the pale neck, and breathed out a sigh of relief when he felt a steady pulse.

“Merlin?” he said, shaking Merlin’s shoulder. “Merlin, I need you to wake up. Merlin!”

Merlin didn’t stir. Arthur leaned over him, checking Merlin’s visage without moving, not knowing if his collapse had resulted in an injury. Merlin’s face was ghost white, his eyes sunken and surrounded by deep shadows. 

“Merlin, please, wake up!” Arthur said, patting Merlin’s cheek gently. 

Merlin stirred, his eyelids fluttering blearily. “A’rth’r?” he moaned. Then his eyes slid shut, and he was out.

“Damn it, Merlin, no! Stay awake, stay with me!”

But Merlin wasn’t having it.

~oOo~

“Exhaustion?” Uther said, and looking as alarmed as Uther Pendragon could get – which, in Arthur’s opinion, wasn’t as alarmed as the situation warranted.

“Severe exhaustion. Brought about by insomnia and mild malnutrition. He was also dehydrated,” Arthur said.

Arthur, as Merlin’s emergency medical contact and so granted medical disclosure by Merlin, had been privy to Merlin’s diagnosis when the doctor had given it. Merlin was, even now, still in the hospital, an IV in his arm combating both the dehydration and mild malnutrition.

“He needs time off, father,” Arthur said. “And by time off I mean as much time as he needs, with no one badgering him about deadlines or new music.”

Because this was more than just a few sleepless nights and missed meals. This was the climax. This was Merlin tipping over the precipice with only a single thread keeping him from falling all the way. This was the final bloody straw, and Arthur was taking the kid on vacation whether he liked it or not, before that string finally snapped and Merlin did more than pass out.

Uther frowned severely, obviously not liking Arthur’s tone. “Arthur…”

“Father, I mean it. Merlin needs a break and he needs it now. He didn’t just bloody pass out, he wouldn’t wake up. He didn’t wake up until this morning and he was so bloody out of it I doubt he heard a word the doctor said. He’s been exhausting himself sick trying to please this damn company for reasons I can’t even begin to understand and enough is enough. I’m taking Merlin away, for however long he needs, and when I do take him I want your word that he won’t be hounded by the studio.”

Arthur leaned forward. “I’m not mincing words when I say his life depends on it. It does. His life depends on this.”

Uther continued to frown. But, then, slowly, reluctantly, he nodded. “Fine.”

“Good,” Arthur said, sitting back, folding his arms. 

It wasn’t until later, as he was leaving the studio, that he realized with some shock that he had just negotiated with the great Uther Pendragon, president of Pendragon Records, and won. 

Arthur, however, didn’t feel victorious or smug. He felt relieved.

Merlin was finally going on a damn holiday.

~oOo~

Merlin, it seemed, had taken a vow of silence, and whether or not it was because he was angry, Arthur didn’t know. Merlin certainly wasn’t happy, and had spent most of his flight to the islands staring out the plane’s window, a look of dejection on his face as though he had resigned himself to a poor fate. When they arrived at the islands, dejection became nervous uncertainty, like a man wondering if he was about to go to the chopping block.

It was depressing. Here they were, in the warm sunshine with beaches all around them, and Merlin moping like a man incarcerated. Needless to say, it was starting to irk Arthur, but he knew better than to try and buck Merlin up, and knew even better than to take his irritation out on the kid. Merlin needed to learn that taking a vacation or two didn’t mean the end of his career, and yelling at him to just accept the situation and relax would only send him into a fit of lamentation over why he shouldn’t be on vacation.

But there was more to this holiday than sun and sand, and while Merlin moped, Arthur was practically thrumming with excitement. 

If Arthur’s surprise didn’t get Merlin to relax, then nothing would.

Gwaine’s “place” was on an island that could only be reached by hiring a boat on another island, and by the time they reached the island it was already late afternoon. Gwaine had referred to the place as a bungalow but Arthur was pretty sure bungalows didn’t look like miniature resorts from a distance. But it was also out in the middle of nowhere, with the small port town about a twenty minute drive away. Perfect for what Merlin needed, where they wouldn’t have to worry about crowded beaches and fans wanting autographs.

They arrived at the house, Arthur about to burst from his skin and Merlin looking prematurely exhausted. It was as spacious on the inside as it was on the outside, but comfortable with plush chairs and couches, a large screen TV, wet bar, and a lovely wooden deck with two hammocks for outdoor sleeping. A spiral staircase led up to the second landing where the bedrooms would be, and all the windows were open to allow in the warm sea breeze.

“We’re home!” Arthur called out.

Merlin looked at him with a frown. “Is someone else here?”

“You could say that,” Arthur said with a grin.

Gwen appeared on the second landing with a small squeal of delight, only to vanish again just as quickly.

“Oh,” Merlin said, confused. “I didn’t know you’d sent them on ahead.”

“For good reason,” Arthur said.

“Merlin, is that you, love?”

It was as though a switch had been flipped somewhere on Merlin’s person. The melancholy and mild fear fled from Merlin in the onslaught of his wide-eyed and brightening joy. His head snapped up to the landing, and the smile that lit up his face was like nothing Arthur had ever seen before.

“Mother?” he said, his voice cracking at the end.

Hunith Emrys stood at the second landing rail, practically glowing in a white sundress and sun hat, but that glow doubling when she saw her son.

“Oh, Merlin,” she said, and hurried down the stairs.

Merlin surged forward and they met half-way at the bottom of the steps, where they embraced each other tightly.

Arthur watched feeling like the cat who got the cream. It wasn’t as though Merlin never got to see his mother, but neither did he have the chance to truly visit with her, without schedules and meetings, concerts and fans getting in the way. Here, now, they had a chance to truly spend time together as a mother and son should. 

Gwen came down the stairs, slipping silently around mother and son to stand by Arthur.

“Arthur, this was a brilliant idea,” she said, bumping his shoulder with hers. “I will admit, I did have my doubts about you being his agent—“

He shot her a confused look. “You did?”

She winced. “Not because of anything personal. I would have been wary regardless of who Uther hired, believe me. After Valiant… well, it was hard not to be.”

Arthur nodded his understanding.

“But I’m glad Uther chose you. I haven’t seen Merlin smile like that in ages.”

Arthur chuffed. “I haven’t seen Merlin smile like that at all.”

But, later, he would come to realize that he had seen Merlin smile like that – in a picture in a magazine, when Merlin had been young, just starting out, and full of hope. Before whatever this business had done to break him, broke him.

~oOo~

Arthur had always considered himself a realistic enough person. He knew that having Merlin’s mother join Merlin on the island wouldn’t break Merlin from his anxiety like some fairytale character being freed from an enchantment. Because while Merlin did smile more, there was still an anxiety to him, a constant tension that was betrayed by the stiff way he sometimes held himself, or the way the muscles in his jaw would jump.

But the misery had been subdued, Merlin smiling hesitantly but still smiling, and Arthur considered that a bit of a victory. 

However, it was quite clear that Merlin had forgotten what one did on vacation, and Arthur – or Hunith, Gwen, or Percival – would often catch him wandering around the house as if looking for something to do (no doubt something that involved sheets of music and a piano), or sitting stiffly on the couch, flipping through the channels and never landing on anything, even when it was a favorite movie or show. When that happened, it soon became a mutually unspoken rule to distract Merlin by getting him to do _something_. Hunith would have him take walks with her along the beach so they could talk. Gwen would show him all the little places she had discovered – tide pools full of star fish, an outcrop of rock where if you stood long enough you could see dolphins, a tree where exotic birds like to gather – or have him come into town with him to look around, maybe do a bit of shopping. Percival would gather him up when he was least suspecting it and throw him in the pool. Arthur would drag him to the beach to put some color on his pasty flesh (which actually wasn’t possible, Merlin being prone to sunburns more than tans, but at least he was getting outside even if he spent most of the time under an umbrella or in whatever shade could be found).

So when change did come, although it came slowly, day by day, it was easy enough to notice. They’d all spent so long dealing with a high-strung and worn out Merlin that it became easy to spot his more relaxed smiles, or the way he woke up looking as though he’d actually had a good night’s sleep, or when he left less and less food on his plate during meals – sometimes even finishing the meal off.

Little victories, but they didn’t feel little. They felt massive.

“Has Merlin always been so… tense?” Arthur asked Hunith. They were coming up to the end of the first week of their little holiday (more like massive, holiday, really – Arthur had booked it to last nearly a month). Merlin and Gwen were somewhere outside star gazing, the sky was so perfectly clear. Arthur was inside having tea with Hunith.

“Well,” Hunith said, stirring her tea with teaspoon. “Life had never been particularly easy for us. We were living paycheck to paycheck more often than not, although I swear Merlin worried over it more than I did.”

Arthur snorted. “No surprise there. He is a worrier.”

“Oh, he is,” Hunith said with a fond if sad smile. “He would fret endlessly if I so much as bought him a birthday present. We could have used the money to pay the water bill, he would say, even when we’d had just enough to pay all the bills.”

“His rise to fame must have seemed like a God-send,” Arthur said.

Hunith twisted her lips uncertainly. “At the time, certainly.”

“But not after,” Arthur said, and took a sip of tea.

“Not after,” Hunith echoed. “And I don’t know why.” She looked at Arthur imploringly.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to find out,” Arthur said. “To be honest, Hunith, I don’t think his collapse is merely because he’s a workaholic. I just… I feel something happened. Something that, I don’t know, shattered him, I suppose. I don’t wish to worry you about it…”

Hunith laughed softly and sadly. “Oh, believe me, Arthur, I’ve been worried for quite some time, now.”

“So what can we do about it?” he asked.

“Have patience,” Hunith said. She sipped her tea. “And when he’s ready to talk, be ready to listen.”

~oOo~

Private beach or no private beach, getting Merlin to go shirtless when swimming was like pulling teeth. Arthur was painfully aware of how painfully self-conscious Merlin was, but being this bashful around his friends (around Arthur, even, who had seen him naked that day Merlin had fallen asleep in the shower) was bordering on the ridiculous.

Unfortunately for Merlin, he’d run out of T-shirts, and Arthur wasn’t taking that as an excuse not to go down to the beach. 

Merlin sat huddle beneath the beach umbrella, his knees to his chest as he slathered thick layers of sun screen onto his skin while scowling at the sand. 

“If I end up with a full-body sunburn I’m hiding the sunscreen and you’re turning red with me,” he groused.

“Merlin,” Arthur said from where he lounged on his towel, sunglasses hiding his eyes. “It would take a nuclear bomb to get past the SPF on that stuff. You’re fine. Now go splash about in the water, I know you want to.”

“Not really,” Merlin said. He had finished with the sunscreen but remained huddled.

Arthur looked at him over the rim of his sunglasses, eying the sharp ridge of his backbone and line of his ribs. Arthur understood _why_ Merlin was self-conscious – skinny thing that he was – but out here, with just the two of them with no other soul in sight, Arthur still thought Merlin was being ridiculous. 

Arthur levered himself upright, hopped to his feet, then grabbed Merlin beneath the armpits, hauled him up and dragged him to the water.

“Hey!” Merlin protested. Days of having to put up with Percival doing the same had made Merlin quite ready for surprise dunkings, and he struggled quite valiantly, but Arthur was stronger and more persistent. He didn’t let Merlin go until they were waist high in the waves, in which Arthur then tossed Merlin into the water. 

Merlin broke the surface, sputtering and gasping. Then he pounced on Arthur, shoving him under.

“You’re a bloody prat!” Merlin said when Arthur surfaced. But he said it laughingly, and pounced Arthur again. Arthur, being ready, managed to grab Merlin’s arm in a way that sent them both under and both breaking the surface, laughing and splashing at each other. 

They spent what felt like a good half-hour splashing about or letting the waves push against them. Merlin was the first to have enough, but then he still did tire easily. They waded back onto the beach, where they trudged through the sand and flopped, dripping and breathless but smiling, onto their perspective towels. 

“Told you you wanted to go in,” Arthur said.

Merlin kicked sand at his leg. 

Arthur laid back on his towel. Merlin, however, resumed his huddled posture.

“Oh, enough, you prima donna. We’re the only ones on the bloody beach, and I – for one – don’t care that you’re a skinny twig,” Arthur said. 

“Sorry,” Merlin said, unhuddling to stretch his legs out and rest back on his hands.

“Don’t be sorry, just relax.” Arthur turned his head to look at Merlin, and asked in all seriousness. “Is it really that hard for you? Relaxing, I mean?”

Merlin glared at him. “I’m relaxing. Don’t you see me relaxing? I’m relaxing.”

“Yes, well, usually when people relax it’s not because someone else told them to relax.” He shook his head. “Seriously, what did Valiant do to you?”

And then, just like that, Merlin was back to huddling self-consciously, his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. Arthur was very tempted to smack himself in the forehead. He settled for a quiet groan.

“I’m sorry, Merlin. I didn’t…” He sighed, then sat up, bringing his own legs up but wrapping his arms more loosely around them.

“Merlin,” he said. “Did something happen? With Valiant? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want but… I don’t know, maybe it’ll help?” 

Merlin remained silent, staring out at the water. Arthur, huffing, stared with him, thinking of the day he’d found Merlin asleep in the shower, and the way Merlin woke as though he thought he was about to be attacked.

Arthur looked at Merlin with wide eyes. “Did Valiant hurt you?”

Merlin didn’t answer. He did stiffen, his eyes going as wide as Arthur’s.

“He did, didn’t he?” Arthur said, sitting straighter. “He wasn’t just being an ass, he actually hurt you. What, did he hit you?”

Merlin launched himself to his feet and began walking quickly away, but Arthur didn’t let him get far. He pushed himself to his own feet, placed his hands on Merlin’s shoulders and steered him back to the towel.

“Nope, nope, nope. You sit back down and tell me, now. What the hell did Valiant do to you?”

But Merlin shrugged Arthur’s hands off roughly, and whirled around with eyes blazing. “Why? Why does it matter? What happened, happened, Valiant’s gone, you’re my agent, so what does it matter?”

“It matters, Merlin, because you nearly bloody well worked yourself into the ground! That’s why it matters!” Arthur shouted, but when Merlin flinched, taking a step back, Arthur forced his frustration deep inside himself, where it wouldn’t inadvertently frighten Merlin off and send him back on the path that everyone was working so hard to steer him clear of.

“It matters,” Arthur said, calmly, kindly. “Because he may be gone but he’s still hurting you. It matters because you haven’t had a break since that bloody contest that made you famous, and it matters because you’re my friend and I refuse to find you passed out on any floors ever again. That’s why it matters.”

Merlin stared at Arthur, his face blank, and for a moment Arthur was sure that Merlin was going to try to make another break for it.

Instead, Merlin sat back down beneath the shade, back in his huddle. Arthur eased himself down next to Merlin. They stayed that way as diamond-foamed waves rolled onto the golden beach. 

“But if you don’t want to talk right now,” Arthur said. “You don’t have to. You _are_ supposed to be relaxing.”

Merlin shook his head. “It’s fine. It’s… I mean… Valiant didn’t beat me, if that’s what you think. He was a bit rough, though. And, then, he just got really mad one day and… and kind of, um…” Merlin rubbed the back of his neck obsessively. “He may have pushed me, a bit.”

“Define a bit,” Arthur said.

Merlin shrugged. “I fell. Hit my back on the piano keys. Then he, um…” Merlin’s hand tightened against his neck. “He – he, he kicked me.”

Arthur’s eyes rounded over. “What?”

“He kicked out. With his foot. Caught me in the chest.” Merlin dropped his hand, allowing his arm to join the other arm in hugging his legs to him. 

Arthur gaped at him. “He kicked you? In the chest?”

Merlin nodded. 

“Hard?”

Merlin shrugged again. “Nothing was broken, just really bruised.”

“And that’s why he was fired,” Arthur guessed. 

Merlin, however, shook his head. “He was fired after he was arrested for being with a prostitute,” he said. “It was after he kicked me. He just… got scared and ran.”

“And hired himself a hooker to, what, make himself feel better?”

“I guess,” Merlin said quietly. 

“Does my father know what happened? Not with the prostitute but Valiant kicking you?”

Merlin shook his head no. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

“Let me guess. You got up, went to the piano and kept rehearsing,” Arthur said flatly.

“I went to get an ice pack, actually,” Merlin said. “For my back and chest. I told Gwen I’d tripped.”

Arthur heaved a heavy breath and rubbed his forehead. “Oh, Merlin.”

“Sorry,” Merlin said dejectedly.

“No, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. I mean, yes, I’m thinking you should have said something but it doesn’t really matter, now, does it?” Arthur shook his head, picturing far too easily for his liking Merlin huddling on the floor, shaking and terrified as Valiant loomed over him radiating violence and a seething need to act on that violence.

Against Merlin.

Skinny, fragile Merlin.

And then Arthur pictured Valiant looming over Merlin, his violence spewing out in the form of words instead of kicks, berating and belittling Merlin because Merlin hadn’t been practicing enough. Because Merlin had been visiting his sick mother. He pictured Valiant telling Merlin that if Merlin didn’t practice, if he wasn’t good enough, didn’t keep working and trying then he’d be fired. The money would be gone, Merlin’s mother forced to work, living a life from paycheck to paycheck and praying it wouldn’t run out before the next bill was paid. He pictured Valiant taking Merlin aside to talk to him “privately” where Gwen and Percival couldn’t see or hear. 

Specifically, see. Because Valiant had been a ‘bit’ rough. Just like he’d pushed Merlin, just a ‘bit,’ and kicked him when he was down. Skinny, fragile Merlin. 

Arthur’s chest tightened, and his fist clenched. He forced himself to relax before Merlin got the wrong idea and tensed all over again.

“Merlin,” Arthur said. “Listen to me. I need you to understand something.”

Merlin nodded, looking at Arthur. 

Arthur placed his hand on Merlin’s bony shoulder. “I don’t know what Valiant told you about this business, but I can promise you it was a load of bull. You will not be fired because you need some time off for a bloody vacation. And you definitely won’t be fired because you missed a few days of rehearsal, or even because the music won’t come to you. And if you do get sacked for whatever stupid reason then we’ll make our own recording company and you can keep at it at your leisure. Do you understand, Merlin? Everything will be all right. There’s no need for you to work yourself to the bone, not for Pendragon Records, not for my father, not even for me. The piano is your talent, Merlin. Your gift. Don’t let anyone take that away from you, let alone tell you how to use it. Alright?”

Merlin nodded, his eyes wide, but more out of astonishment than fear. 

Arthur nodded back. “Good. Because if I catch you overworking yourself I will drag you on another vacation.”

A smile spread on Merlin’s face. It was not the same bright, joyous smile from when he had seen his mother. It was amused, relaxed, content. It was the smile not merely of someone happy, but also of someone finally – at last – used to being happy. The smile of someone enjoying themselves.

About bloody time. 

“You do realize that threat might be a bit counter-productive,” Merlin said.

“It’s not a threat,” Arthur said. “It’s a promise. Of course if you actually do want a vacation you could just say something. You know I’d arrange your schedule in a heartbeat.”

Merlin’s smile became bright as the sun.

~oOo~

The beach house had a piano – a classy, glossy black thing there for aesthetics rather than use, and it seemed a bloody miracle Merlin had yet to touch the thing the first week of vacation.

On the fifth day of the second week, while Arthur was preparing dinner (being his turn) his hand froze over the diced onions at the melodious noise wandering his way from the adjacent room. 

Arthur grumbled expletives, tossing the knife onto the counter before stomping off to remind Merlin what vacations usually entailed. But the words froze on his tongue when he stepped through the entry and stopped. It was hard to say anything with Merlin playing so passionately, his mother by his side and a happy smile on his face. Arthur had never seen Merlin smiling while he played.

He also realized he’d never before heard the song Merlin was currently paying. And he wouldn’t have, the song being brand new and all.

The End


End file.
